Chapter Eleven
T he stately order of the great house had been replaced by a sense of urgency. Servants hurried along the corridors, their hands laden with linens and basins of steaming water. Somewhere below, the metallic clang of a dropped tray echoed briefly before being lost beneath the murmur of voices, the rustle of skirts, the firm instructions issued by those whose authority would not be questioned.
Elizabeth barely had time to take in her surroundings before Mr. Collins’s voice, thick with indignation, rang out behind her in the hall. She turned dully towards the sound.
“My dear cousin, I must express my deepest distress at the calamity which has befallen you. Such grievous misfortune, such disorder! Yet I cannot but observe that had you exercised greater prudence, such trials might have been avoided. Indeed, I am of the opinion that your own heedlessness must bear some portion of the blame.”
Elizabeth stared at her cousin, but she said nothing as the noise around her continued, a flurry of servants moving with purpose. Mr. Collins’s voice cut through the clamour like a blade.
“That the inestimable Mr. Darcy, a gentleman of such consequence, such exalted position, has been placed in danger most dire! I am quite unable to reconcile myself to the notion that he should have suffered injury—indeed, grievous injury—in consequence of your ill-advised actions. Lady Catherine herself is in a state of great discomposure, and it is solely by her unparalleled generosity that you find yourself in this house rather than removed to lesser lodgings more suited to your station.”
Elizabeth clenched her hands into the fabric of her ruined skirt, her patience already worn thin. Before she could summon a retort, a firm but gentle hand grasped her arm.
“Come, Eliza,” Charlotte murmured, her voice low, gentle. Without waiting for a response, she ushered Elizabeth up the stairs and into a chamber that had apparently been prepared for her use, closing the door firmly behind them.
The moment the door latched, silence fell. The storm of activity was suddenly gone, muted by the thick walls, leaving only the soft rustling of fabric as a maid moved efficiently about the room.
A blanket had been draped over a chair to protect the upholstery, and at a nod from Charlotte, Elizabeth lowered herself onto it, her limbs trembling with exhaustion.
Charlotte knelt at Elizabeth’s side. “At last, some peace,” she murmured, reaching for the damp cloth a maid had brought. “We shall see you properly tended now.”
Elizabeth closed her eyes as Charlotte began to gently clean the dirt and dried blood from her arms, removing the makeshift bandage Mr. Darcy had sacrificed his cravat to make, carefully cleaning the wound several times before binding it again with clean linens. The maid moved quietly to prepare a bath, and the promise of warm water and a moment’s respite beckoned.
Only as she sat there, briefly alone as Charlotte helped the maid, did the true weight of all that had passed begin to settle upon her shoulders.
She had nearly died. But Mr. Darcy had saved her.
Charlotte helped her to the next room where a large tub filled with hot water awaited. The heat of the water enveloped her, seeping into her bones, loosening the tight knots of pain and fear and weariness that had settled there. Elizabeth leaned forward, closing her eyes as Charlotte gently poured warm water over her shoulders. The maid worked efficiently, her hands steady as she lathered a cloth and ran it over Elizabeth’s arms, careful around the wound that would soon require the surgeon’s attention.
Elizabeth’s mind was restless. She longed to ask about Mr. Darcy, but she did not dare while the maid was about. After having remained relatively composed throughout the events of the day, she could feel herself coming apart. But she could not, not yet. Her hands gripped the edges of the tub. She had to be strong.
“Is Maria still at the parsonage?” she asked, simply to have something to say.
“She is, and writing furiously in her journal, I imagine.”
Elizabeth laughed, but it came out sounding more like a hysterical bark. Like an angry goose, she thought, and laughed again.
Charlotte patted Elizabeth’s shoulder gently. “All will be well, Eliza,” she said reassuringly.
Elizabeth nodded, but did not—could not—speak. Was it a terrible thing to wish to unburden herself to Mr. Darcy rather than anyone else?
Once she had bathed, the maid helped her into a soft night rail and Charlotte guided her to the bed. Elizabeth sank onto the mattress, the mound of pillows that had been piled up to support her nearly swallowing her up. She closed her eyes. It would be difficult to remain awake for long. Even the ice wrapped in a cloth that Charlotte applied to the side of her face hardly registered.
Charlotte tucked the blankets around her before stepping back and sitting in a chair that the maid had drawn up to the side of the bed. The room was warm, but a shiver ran down Elizabeth’s spine. She turned her head toward the door, willing it to open, willing someone to come in with news of Mr. Darcy. Yet, the door remained closed, and soon she could no longer keep her eyes open.
Time passed in the sort of languor where one was aware of what was happening but unable to move, and it was in this state she heard the heavy sound of approaching footsteps that heralded the arrival of the surgeon.
“Mrs. Collins,” he said. “Miss Bennet.”
With great effort, Elizabeth opened her eyes halfway. He moved to her side, setting his instruments upon the small table the maid had arranged. He assessed the wound on her arm. “That will require stitching.” He pulled up a chair and began to roll up his sleeves.
Elizabeth swallowed hard. She had steeled herself for this, but now that the moment had come, she felt dread pool in her stomach.
Charlotte hovered nearby. “She should have something for the pain.”
“Aye, a drop of laudanum will do.” The surgeon gestured to the maid, who swiftly prepared a dose in a small bit of water. Charlotte held the glass to her lips, and Elizabeth hesitated only a moment before swallowing it, the bitter taste curling her tongue.
Minutes passed. The room blurred at the edges as the laudanum took hold. The pain dulled and sleep beckoned. She tried to form the words, to ask—
Mr. Darcy?
But the question never passed her lips. The last thing she saw before her mind surrendered to oblivion was Charlotte’s comforting smile.
Certain sounds reached Darcy as if from a great distance, distorted and sluggish, as though carried through water. Fitz’s voice and other hushed murmurs, a fire sparking to life, the distant clatter of something metal being dropped on a tray. His limbs felt heavy, his body a heavy weight that he could neither shift nor escape.
Somewhere to his right, Fitz’s voice cut through the haze, his tone laced with that forced amusement he always employed when uneasy.
“What in the blazes is this on your head, Darcy?”
Words eluded him, slipping through his mind before he could catch hold of them. He felt hands at his temples, carefully unwinding the cloth that had been wound about his brow, its edges rough, stiffened with dried blood and recalled how gently Elizabeth had tended to his wounds. While Fitz was careful to dampen the rest with water before lifting it away, still the motion tugged at his scalp, a sharp pull of pain against the more persistent throbbing in his back.
Fitz made a noise of displeasure, a sharp exhale through his nose. “The surgeon will be here soon. Try not to expire before then, if you please.”
Darcy might have smiled, had he the strength for it. He heard the drip of wet fabric being wrung out over water and detected the scent of spirits drifting toward him as his wounds were cleaned. The touch was both sharp and distant, the pain dulled by fatigue, yet insistent enough to drag him up a bit from the reaches of oblivion.
The sound of the fire crackling to life reached his ears, and his thoughts drifted listlessly towards it. Something was being consumed by the flames, the scent of charred cloth reaching his nose. Fitz had thrown it in the fire, then—the remnants of Elizabeth’s petticoat. Wise man.
His coat was cut from him, and he could not help but feel a twinge of annoyance. He had liked that coat, though he supposed it was beyond saving. Then he was being carefully rolled onto his stomach, and a cool cloth was laid against the back of his neck. Darcy exhaled, the tension in his body easing ever so slightly. A murmur of dismay reached him, Fitz’s voice low and edged with concern. “God above, Darcy.”
The hands that worked over him were practiced, gentle where they could be, firm where they must.
Darcy stirred, the words dragging him closer to awareness. “I could not move in time,” he rasped, his voice barely more than a whisper. “Something fell from above—sharp.”
He had shoved Elizabeth against the wall. Had he hurt her in his haste? The crash, the sickening sensation of a knife cutting him even through his coat—he had been too slow to avoid it entirely, but the pain had been a fleeting thing against the need to keep moving.
Fitz swore under his breath. “You had best not be feverish on the morrow, or I shall be forced to listen to Lady Catherine lamenting your recklessness for the remainder of my days.”
“ Her folly, not mine,” he whispered. He might have laughed, but even the thought of it was too great an effort. Instead, his mind drifted elsewhere, to another concern, one more pressing than his own discomfort. “Miss Bennet . . .” he murmured.
Fitz sighed. “She is being seen to. You need not fret over her.”
But Darcy did fret. He knew too well that composure in the moment did not guarantee endurance after it. Elizabeth had borne the terror and the danger admirably, but now that the worst had passed, had she truly been allowed the time to recover? Had she wept? Had she allowed herself even a moment of weakness? He wished—selfishly, perhaps—that he might see her, might assure himself that she was not suffering more than necessary.
He was moved carefully into a sitting position. Something was pressed to his lips, and he drank without thought, the liquid warm and bitter, burning slightly as he swallowed. The room swayed, or perhaps it was only his own failing senses. This time he barely felt it when someone pressed a fresh cloth to his wounds. Fitz’s voice murmured something indistinct, but he could not grasp the words.
Darcy knew he should despise being moved this way and that without so much as a protest, that he was relinquishing the control over himself that defined a gentleman. Yet fatigue and the dull ache in his limbs numbed his defiance. He could almost convince himself that this surrender was not an act of weakness, but a necessary pause, a momentary reprieve from the relentless demands of self-command.
The surgeon arrived not long after, his presence announced by the firm rap of knuckles against wood. Had he seen Elizabeth already? Was she well? Darcy caught only fragments of hushed conversation between him and Fitz. The examination that followed was thorough but mercifully brief, the surgeon’s touch efficient as he cleaned and dressed the wounds. There was a sensation of tugging at his back, and he wondered blearily whether that injury had required stitching. Probably.
“He was fortunate,” the surgeon pronounced at last. “The cuts are deep, but you cleaned them well. We must always watch for infection, but with proper care, they should heal without issue. I shall have to wait for him to wake before I can say whether he has been concussed. For now, rest is the best healer,” the surgeon continued, speaking now to Fitz. “The bandages must be changed regularly. Watch for fever.”
“Of course,” Fitz replied. “I shall see to it personally.”
The surgeon gathered his instruments, the soft clink of metal against metal marking his movements. “I have left suitable draughts for the pain. No more laudanum until I can better assess his head wound.”
“We did not give him much,” Fitz replied.
“Very good. I shall return tomorrow.”
Darcy felt himself drifting away again, the voices growing more distant. He was vaguely aware of being helped to lie on his stomach, his head turned gently to lay on its uninjured side, of blankets being drawn carefully over him.
“Rest now,” Fitz said in his ear.
Time passed strangely after that, measured only by the darkening room, the occasional shifting of logs in the fire, and the quiet movements of the servants. Darcy floated in and out of consciousness, his thoughts of Elizabeth preventing him from letting go entirely. The memory of her face, pale but determined, as they navigated the treacherous path to safety. The gentle pressure of her hand supporting him, her quiet strength an anchor. Her delight when he related the story of Pemberley’s geese. Her courage, her trust in him as he helped her jump to safety.
He was drawn momentarily from his half-sleep by the sound of raised voices in the corridor. Lady Catherine’s distinctive tones carried clearly through the door, growing louder as she approached.
“This is absolutely unconscionable! My nephew, injured! And all because of that headstrong girl’s complete disregard for proper behaviour!”
The door burst open with enough force to rattle the candlesticks. Darcy’s muscles tensed, but the laudanum’s pull was strong. He heard Fitz’s attempted intervention, his voice low and placating. “Aunt, perhaps we might discuss this in the morning—”
Lady Catherine swept in, her presence filling the room like a storm cloud. Even though his eyes were closed, Darcy could picture her expression perfectly: lips pressed into a thin line, eyes sharp with displeasure.
“Darcy! I demand to know what possessed you to engage in such reckless behaviour! To risk your life, your position, your reputation—and for what? Some country nobody who has not the sense to stay where she belongs?”
Darcy could not open his eyes even for this, though inside he bristled at his aunt’s characterization of Elizabeth. He wanted to stand for her the way she had for him. In his current state, however, there was nothing he could do.
“Lady Catherine.” Fitz’s voice cut through her tirade, unusually stern. “I must insist that we continue this discussion elsewhere. Darcy requires rest, as the surgeon has explicitly ordered.”
“Do not presume to dictate to me in my own house, Fitzwilliam! I am perfectly capable of determining what is best for my nephew, and I say—”
“Your ladyship.” This time Fitz’s tone held an edge of steel. “Surely you would not wish to impede Darcy’s recovery?”
A heavy silence fell. Darcy could almost feel his aunt’s indignation radiating through the room.
“Very well,” Lady Catherine said, her voice clipped. “But this discussion is far from over. I expect both of you to attend me in the morning, when we shall address this situation properly. And that girl will be dealt with.”
The door closed with rather more force than necessary, and Fitz muttered a curse under his breath.
Darcy forced his eyes open—at least, he thought he had, though it was still very dark. “You must not let her near Elizabeth,” he said hoarsely. “She is not well enough to weather such attentions.”
“Peace, Darcy.” Fitz’s voice was very near. “Mrs. Collins is with her. Your Elizabeth is safe enough for now.”
“Not my Elizabeth,” Darcy murmured. The laudanum was pulling at him again, making his thoughts slow and heavy. His eyelids fluttered closed.
“Sleep,” Fitz said gently. “I give you my word that Lady Catherine shall not disturb either of you tonight. And I will inform her of exactly what occurred. I do not think she knows.”
“Thank you,” Darcy whispered before the laudanum and his own enervation finally pulled him under for good.